


Properly Special

by verynotconcise



Category: Sex Education (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Mentions of Otis Milburn/Maeve Wiley, happens immediately after the voicemail scene in s2e8, mentions of otis because of the voicemail and because maeve likes him lol, no beta we die like men, omelettes with maeve and isaac!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:47:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26934601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verynotconcise/pseuds/verynotconcise
Summary: “Do you want to dance?”“I don’t dance.”“You did.” Isaac said, rocking his shoulders playfully, “You even looked like you enjoyed yourself.”“He stepped on my foot,” Maeve deadpanned, “Several times.”“Well,” Isaac said, clapping his hands together, “I may not be as agile as he was, but I can promise you that Idefinitelywon’t step on your feet.”Takes place after S2E8, where Maeve and Isaac make omelettes, eat and talk, mostly in that order.
Relationships: Isaac & Maeve Wiley
Comments: 16
Kudos: 13





	Properly Special

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta-ed

_“You telling me that you had feelings for me was.. was all I ever wanted to hear. And— I was so caught up in trying to do the right thing.. I lost track of what it is. It’s you— it’s always been you. I love you, Maeve. Call me back? I hope it’s not too late—”_

Beep.

“Message deleted.”

Isaac stared blankly at the phone screen that had long blanked out again, holding onto his wrists in contemplation. There were surprisingly few such moments he had now, what with the little interaction with people he had outside of his brother, Joe. He’d never really had to think about what other people thought about him, about the consequences of his actions, about how other people _would_ think about him.

Until now.

And as he stared at his reflection on the screen of the phone, marred by scratches and fingerprints, he wondered what Maeve would think of him if she ever found out about what he just did— about the voicemail he deleted.

He would like to explain it away with excuses of being a good friend, thinking of nothing else but her feelings about Otis. Maeve had made it clear to him that she had feelings for him. Even if she didn’t say it, it was obvious to any stranger who cared enough to pay a second of attention at the party, how her gaze kept straying to the drunken boy who hurt her in the middle of a party.

Isaac lowered his gaze, rubbing his wrists distractedly.

Maeve still liked Otis. And now Isaac knew what he had always suspected: Otis still reciprocated her feelings. Even after the shitshow at his party, announcing to everyone that he deserved more than the two girls he humiliated could give, Otis was here telling Maeve that he still liked her. _Loved_ her.

He returned her feelings.

As a good friend, Isaac should’ve been happy for Maeve. He should have been excited to tell her of the voicemail that came in while she was out getting milk, he should have been honest about invading her privacy, apologise for it and celebrate the joyous moment later on after Maeve had settled things with Otis.

But Isaac had never been that kind of friend.

He looked at the blank screen again, staring into his own eyes, filled with a loneliness that had been accumulated with years of whispers behind his back, with years of people staring down at him with a mix of pity and distaste in their eyes. He thought of how Maeve stared at him the first time that they met. There wasn’t a single shred of sympathy in there, just an understanding that they were both teenagers thrown in the wild to grow up by themselves.

Maeve was the first stranger who had looked at him and seen him for who he _really_ was. Not a boy in a wheelchair, not a boy from a broken family with a poor upbringing, but a boy who was tired of the stares, of the eyes that bore into the back of his head.

Isaac knew that he hadn’t always been the nicest neighbour— much less a _friend_ — to Maeve, but it was because niceties and pleasantries were things that people like them simply couldn’t afford. Maeve was the only other person in Isaac’s life who understood this.

And now, his suspicions were confirmed— that Otis did still have feelings for Maeve— and it brought out a new emotion in him: fear. Fear of losing his new friend, of losing the only other person who could understand him.

Because if— no, not if, _when—_ Maeve finds out that Otis loves her, she’ll inevitably end up spending more time with him. Even if it hadn’t been a very long time since Maeve accepted Isaac’s apology and started hanging out with him, he found himself more attached to her than he should have been.

But perhaps, it wasn’t that surprising. He had been screaming silently for anyone to reach out to him, and Maeve was the only person to hear the call.

What would she think of him, when she finds out that he’d not only invaded her privacy, but deleted the voicemail meant for her?

He heard her come up the ramp before she knocked on the door, opening it quietly with a bag in hand.

“That was fast,” he said, turning around with a smile. “Did you get it?” Maeve sighed, closing the door with her foot. She raised the hand carrying the bag of groceries before walking over to the countertop next to him, taking out the carton of fresh milk. She bent down to open the fridge, pulling out the carton of eggs.

“There’s a shortcut to the grocery shop,” Maeve explained, “Where do you keep your bowls?”

Isaac leaned forward, opening the cupboard as he looked up at her expectantly. She gave him an unamused stare before leaning down herself, pulling out a large bowl to rinse.

“Seems like there’s a lot of places around that I don’t know about.” Isaac said, watching her crack eggs into the bowl with expert ease. “Maybe you should show me around one day.”

Her gaze flickered to him for a split second. “What for?”

Isaac shrugged nonchalantly, “Would be useful to know the place you’re intending to stay in better, wouldn’t it?”

Maeve froze with the egg in her hand hovering over the rim of the bowl. She turned around to face Isaac, raising a skeptical brow. “You’re planning to stay?”

“Well,” Isaac smiled playfully, “That depends.”

“On what?”

“On how much I like this place, obviously. Can’t stay in a place you don’t like, right?”

“Are you going to elaborate?”

Isaac leaned back, “I might stay if you give me reasons to.” he tilted his head in fake contemplation, “Convince me to stay.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because,” he said with emphasis, dragging the word out as the smile on his lips widened. It was not the usual disdainful smile he gives to strangers who looked down on him, nor was it the one with contempt he paired with a more polite version of “fuck you” when strangers told him what he could or could not do. Maeve leaned back against the countertop, folding her arms with the egg still in her hand. “You and I are special.”

_"It leaves a lot of scars. But those scars make you special. And you and I are properly special."_

Recognition flashed in her eyes before she blinked it away, schooling her features back into an impassive gaze. She turned back around, cracking the egg into the bowl casually.

“People like us are a dime a dozen. What makes you think that we’re so special?”

“People like us are a dime a dozen,” Isaac agreed, “But we are all different. There’s never going to be another Maeve who’s always so serious in the face department. And there’s never going to be another Isaac who’s as charismatic as me.”

Maeve smiled down into the cracked eggs, pressing her lips into a thin line to suppress the laughter threatening to escape from her. This made Isaac smile, leaning back in his wheelchair.

“That makes us pretty special, you know, makes us pretty irreplaceable.” he paused, letting his thoughts simmer the way he always does when he gets sentimental about things. Once he collected his thoughts, Isaac straightened himself in his seat, rubbing his hands together. “So you might want to keep me around a little longer. If I leave, you’re never going to meet another me.”

Maeve glanced at him with a small smile, the smallest upturn of her lips, stepping sideways to wash her hands.

“You say that like it isn’t a blessing.”

“It isn’t.”

“How do you know that?”

_Because I see it in your eyes, too_. “I just know.” Isaac shrugged.

Maeve shook her head, biting on the insides of her cheek. “Where do you put your cutlery?”

Isaac pushed the control stick on his wheelchair, moving forward just enough to pull open a small drawer. Maeve looked at him in acknowledgement as she took a fork out. “Do you have any pepper and salt?”

“Do I look like the kind of guy who cooks?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“It’s in the next drawer.” Isaac nodded to the drawer against Maeve’s hip. She took a step back to open it, fishing for the two small bottles.

“It’s nearly empty.” she said, “You said you didn’t cook.”

“ _I_ didn’t say that. But my delicate sensibilities have been incredibly offended by the fact that you think so lowly of me.”

Maeve rolled her eyes that twinkled with amusement. She tapped on the bottom of the overturned pepper, estimating the amount of pepper needed for the omelette before doing the same with the bottle of salt. “Was I wrong?”

“My brother cooks for us,” Isaac said.

Maeve picked up the fork in the drawer, shutting it with her hip as she started whisking the eggs. “Where’s your brother?”

“Interested?” Isaac teased. Maeve leveled him a look, still beating the eggs without breaking momentum. “He’s working.”

“Where?”

“He helps around in pubs at night. Otherwise, he’s usually juggling between a few part time jobs.”

“Like teaching a swing dance class.”

“Like teaching a swing dance class.” Isaac confirmed.

Maeve raised her brows, glancing back at the eggs. “He’s a busy man.”

“As are you.”

The small smile on Maeve’s lips faded away as an indecipherable fog clouded over in her eyes. She stopped moving her wrist, resting it against the rim of the bowl.

“He takes care of you.”

“We take care of each other.” Isaac looked down, putting his hands on his lap. “We don’t really have anyone else we can depend on. We are each other’s only family.”

Maeve averted her gaze, choosing to look out of the window by the sink, through the gaps between the blinders, straight at her caravan. “At least you can depend on yours.” she said quietly.

They fell into a silence punctured with tension. Although this was where most people would start to apologise for bringing up something unpleasant— for ruining the mood— Isaac didn’t. It didn’t make sense to apologise for something that was out of your control. With the way that Maeve didn’t say anything, he knew she understood. She didn’t want to hear an apology either.

It was just another one of those things they understood about each other off the bat.

“Where do you keep your pan?” she asked instead. Isaac gave her a humourless smile and pointed to the shelf above her head. Maeve got on her tiptoes as she pulled out a slightly rusted teflon pan from under a stainless steel pot. It was old and worse for wear, but it was a pan that had followed them from their parents’ house, and despite the bad blood between them, he found himself surprisingly reluctant at the thought of throwing it away.

Perhaps it had something to do with being one of his last connections to his parents, to a life he once had.

Isaac turned in his seat, hooking his arms over the armrest to look through the fridge. Maeve looked over her shoulder, watching as Isaac produced a small container.

“Butter,” he said by way of explanation. Maeve gave him a half-smile as she took the container from him, something so small that Isaac nearly missed, nothing more than just the small upward tug on the corner of her lips.

Isaac watched in silence as Maeve cooked the omelettes for them. He studied the way her jaw locked as she flipped the omelettes, examining them with laser sharp focus to make sure that it wasn’t undercooked on it inside. And as he sat there quietly, he came to a sudden realisation that even sharing this silence with Maeve was enjoyable. It was rare to find someone he wanted to talk to, but being able to be quiet and bask in their presence was something he didn’t remember experiencing before.

And it was a lovely feeling, the warmth that blossomed in his chest.

He wondered if this was something that Maeve had with other people as well: the ability to share a quiet moment in comfort. It was a kind of intimacy that he hadn’t experienced with people other than Joe, and although it was foreign to him, he realised that he really liked it.

He wondered if this was something unique to the kind of friendship between two people who were trying to heal from their childhood traumas, or if it was ubiquitous and something he hadn’t had the privilege to experience until now.

“It’s done.” Maeve announced, rolling out the second omelette onto the other plate. She turned off the stove and held both plates in her hands. “Which do you want?”

“The prettier looking one.” Isaac said, peering down at both omelettes, “Which I realise isn’t saying a lot.”

“Bloody hell, don’t eat it then.” Maeve said, turning to put the other plate in the sink.

“I didn’t say that I don’t want to eat it.” Isaac said. Maeve looked over her shoulder.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re an arse?” she asked, holding out the plate for him. Isaac chuckled as he took it onto his lap.

“Good thing I have you around to do that, don’t I?” 

Maeve cut out a piece of her omelette, choosing to eat it instead of reply to Isaac. But he didn’t need a verbal reply anyway, not with the way that her lip curved up at the side. He smiled back at her, slicing the end of his omelette to taste.

“It’s pretty good.”

“Thanks.”

“My brother’s eggs are still better, though.” Maeve flipped him off with a perfectly unimpressed look, something that Isaac suspected came with years of practice.

It was hard not to laugh, though. Maeve was someone who tried to exude an aura of indifference in everything she did, but _especially_ the things that she cared most about. It was surprising how she still cared about the small, trivial things like who could cook a better omelette. It should be something she couldn’t care less about, but Isaac could tell that it pleased her to know that someone enjoyed her food.

It must have been a long time since she had cooked for anyone who commented on her cooking skills in a way that mattered. 

They ate another few mouthfuls in an easy silence before Isaac put his fork down on the plate, resting his hand on the armrest. “What are the quiz heads?” he asked, nodding towards the patch on her yellow polo shirt. Maeve followed his stare, frowning down at the shirt.

“Just some quiz team I was part of.”

“Did you have a competition today?”

“National championship.” Maeve said with a hint of satisfaction in her voice, although her eyes betrayed nothing.

“Wow,” Isaac said, impressed. He arched his eyebrows. “Did you win?”

“What do you think?”

“Of course you did.”

Her smile bordered on a smirk as she leaned back against the countertop, cutting out another piece with her fork. It was something that she was obviously very proud about, but didn’t want to linger on for too long. It seemed like something she was used to doing— avoiding all talk about herself, about her own achievements. Even if she tried not to let herself look like she cared about other people’s opinions, Isaac was starting to learn that a small part of her still wanted to know that she wasn’t all jaded and cynical, that there was something still redeemable about her.

Isaac knew what that felt like, because he’d been trying to bury the same feeling in him. That sometimes, people like them had especially hardened personalities because the words and affection they craved the most were the things most likely to hurt them. Better to be alone and pretend that such things weren’t important, than to hand over your heart on a silver platter for other people to break.

Isaac picked up his fork, picking up a small piece of egg near the edge of the plate. “Congrats on that, by the way.”

“We nearly lost.”

“But you didn’t.”

Maeve nodded, smiling down at her half-eaten omelette. “No,” she echoed, looking back at Isaac with a tight but sincere smile. All traces of pride that was there a second ago had vanished. “We didn’t.”

Another hush had fallen over them as they finished their food, occasionally looking back at each other. In the silence between them, sounds from outside the caravan drifted into the room. The sounds of shoes against gravel, the muffled shouting between husband and wife, the cries of insects that become amplified in the night. They were all sounds that were starting to become familiar to Isaac. There was always a kind of rhythm to which they dance to every night.

Maeve pushed the last piece of omelette around her plate with a crease between her brows. Isaac had seen that look on her before: when she walked into Otis’ party, when he came up to her in his drunken stupor. He remembered vividly how her eyebrows drew together for a split second, the deep frown that surfaced only for a split second.

Here it was now, clearer than ever.

Isaac rolled his chair forward, leaning sideways to put his empty plate in the sink. Maeve looked up at his sudden movement, blinking away her thoughts as Isaac smiled up at her.

“Do you want to dance?”

“I don’t dance.”

“You did.” Isaac said, rocking his shoulders playfully, “You even looked like you enjoyed yourself.”

“He stepped on my foot,” Maeve deadpanned, “Several times.”

“Well,” Isaac said, clapping his hands together, “I may not be as agile as he was, but I can promise you that I _definitely_ won’t step on your feet.”

Maeve snorted, “That’s not funny.”

“You laughed.”

“That wasn’t a laugh.”

“Smiled, then.” Isaac compromised, holding out his hand to her. She straightened her back, arching a brow. “May I have this dance?”

Maeve tilted her head to the side in thought. “There’s no music.” she said, putting her plate down to take his hand.

Isaac shrugged a shoulder casually and rolled his chair all the way back to his painting, reaching for the record player next to it. He turned his head towards Maeve. “Any special requests?”

Maeve shook her head once, “Nothing terrible.”

“You’re in luck. ‘Nothing terrible’ just so happens to be my taste in music.” Isaac said, reaching for the stack of vinyl records behind the player. He caught a glimpse of Maeve rolling her eyes with a crooked smile, folding her arms in the way that she always did— not defensively, but in amusement.

Isaac rifled through them briefly before settling his eyes on a specific one, smiling to himself as he pulled the vinyl out. He smiled at Maeve as he placed it on the platter with gentle hands, raising the lever to move the tonearm over the record. He bent forward awkwardly, trying to gauge where the stylus would land before he lowered the lever slowly.

A loud and upbeat jazz tune filled the room as the stylus made contact with the vinyl record. Maeve’s eyes widened in recognition— it was the same song they played in the swing class session she attended.

“Perfect.” Isaac’s smile broadened in approval as he pushed the control stick on his wheelchair, moving himself back to Maeve. Once again, he held out a hand towards her, battling his eyelashes at her mischievously.

“Maeve, may I have this dance with you?”

“No.” she said, taking his hand.

Isaac bowed his head in acknowledgement, leading Maeve to the only place in his small caravan that had any space to move around at all— the space between the entrance of the ramp and his painting workspace. Maeve held onto his hand gingerly as she took slow steps next to him, matching the pace of his wheelchair. A thought occurred to her, how soft his palm felt in her calloused hands, and she had a sudden realisation that his prickly attitude to everyone had made her think that everything about him had been tough, entitled and demanding.

But even so, he still tried protecting her in his own way. Not that she appreciated it all the time, but she got it. He was trying to look out for her. He could be unexpectedly soft as well.

Despite the same song playing in the background, the atmosphere was different. Maeve was never an enthusiastic dance partner, and Isaac wasn’t able to guide her as much as Joe was able to with his students. Rather than a high-level energy dance with both partners jumping and twirling about in synchronised harmony, Maeve spun around, twirling outward and back towards Isaac in slow, awkward movements while Isaac wiggled in his wheelchair, shaking his body to the beat of the song as Maeve moved around him.

It was much slower than the dance should have been, and definitely more static as well, but it was fun. It took Isaac a few jabs at her rigid movements and Maeve returning every comment with an equally pointed one before they found a nice balance between unfamiliarity and comfort. But somewhere along the line, all the weight on Maeve’s shoulders seemed to dissipate with every new note echoing in the small caravan. The little line between her brows that had been there the whole night disappeared as the lights in her eyes came on, and Isaac found that Maeve holding onto his hand looked much different than the Maeve he usually saw.

Here and now, she was free. And so was he.

When the fourth song ended with the last note fading into silence, Maeve’s footsteps slowed down, eventually stopping before Isaac.

“You’re welcome.” Isaac said.

“What for?”

“The dance, of course.”

“You’re a terrible dance partner.” Maeve scoffed, letting go of his hand.

“At least I didn’t step on your feet.” Isaac said, unable to keep the smile off his face as he leaned forward, “Kept my promise, didn’t I?”

Maeve snorted, although she did not reply to him. Instead, her gaze wandered over Isaac’s head— to the painting he was working on before she came to find him— staring fixedly with a blank expression.

“It’s pretty good,” Maeve remarked, finding herself captivated by the painting, of soft and precise strokes by what people would assume could only be done with nimble fingers. “Your painting.”

Isaar looked over his shoulder for a brief moment, “Thank you.” he said sincerely, “It took me longer than usual to get the colours right.”

“How long have you been painting?”

“Years,” Isaac said, “Started some time after my fall.”

Maeve fell silent for a long second. “Is it difficult? Painting with the brush in your mouth.”

“It is.” Isaac nodded, “Lots of people tried telling me how difficult it would be for me to paint like that. But I did it anyway, as a sort of fuck you to them. Doing the things that people say you can’t do liberates you in the way not many things can.”

Maeve smiled a mirthless smile, lowering her gaze. She was quiet for a moment before she spoke again, in a low voice.

“When I was younger, I was constantly told to dress better, to talk like a lady, to smile more.” she paused in thought, reminiscing old memories. “But watching the way that it offended people when I did the exact opposite of everything that I was told to do were some of the most gratifying moments of my life.”

Isaac laughed, leaning backwards as he crossed her hands over his lap. Maeve’s gaze drifted over to his, smiling at him weakly as their short laughter came to a natural end. They found themselves enveloped by another moment of silence, each waiting for the other to say something. It was a moment of vulnerability that they both recognised, the climax of the entire night. Whatever was said now would be kept strictly between them, that was the spoken rule.

It was the only moment that Isaac could ask what had been at the back of his mind for the entire night without being perceived as intrusive.

“Do you really like him?” Isaac asked softly, “That Otis guy.”

Maeve’s eyes hardened as she set her jaw, folding her arms across her stomach while she shifted her weight to one foot. She looked to the side for a long moment, pondering in silence. Isaac knew it was not the question she was thinking about, but whether to divulge such private information to him.

After a minute that stretched into an hour, Maeve’s eyes darted back to meet his stare briefly before she lowered her gaze. Although the moment was fleeting, Isaac saw it clearly. It wasn’t the firm gaze he was used to, but something delicate.

“I think I always have.” she admitted in a small voice, barely above a breath.

Isaac nodded. He expected this, but he didn’t understand. “What’s so special about him?” Isaac asked, confused. “He can’t understand you, you know.”

“He tries.” Maeve said softly.

“And is that enough? That he tries? Even if he doesn’t understand you?”

“I don’t need him to understand everything about me.” Maeve said with a tone of finality in her voice, looking up at Isaac with fire in her eyes. Isaac closed his mouth, frowning puzzledly. It was the same look she gave him that day when he told her that her mother would never stay clean, when he implied that her mother would always remain an addict. For a split second, Isaac wondered if he had crossed another line he never knew was there until the damage was done, but Maeve’s shoulders slackened and the fire in her eyes were doused with a soft but heavy sigh.

“I don’t need him to understand everything about me. And maybe sometimes that’s for the best. I won’t understand everything about him either.” Maeve swallowed, looking off to the side. “He’ll never understand everything, and I don’t expect him to, either.” Maeve said, smiling humourlessly at the floor, “But even if he doesn’t always get me, he tries his best. That’s a lot more than I can ever ask for.”

It came with sudden clarity to Isaac, like a lightning bolt in the middle of a cloudy night, that even if Maeve and him were similar in their unfortunate circumstances, they were so very different. That he had pushed everyone away, hated them for their inability to understand him. He detested the looks he received from people who didn’t understand, the words of sympathy they uttered when they couldn’t understand.

They would never be able to truly understand him, but it didn’t mean that they weren’t trying to. That was something that Maeve knew, and something he did not.

Until now.

And it came with sudden clarity to Isaac, like the clap of thunder amongst the howling wind, that perhaps he had been wrong about people all along. That it didn’t always matter what the outcome was— it was the process, the journey.

Maeve wasn’t disappointed with her mother for relapsing— although that was part of it. No, the large part of it was the disappointment of being lied to. Maeve wasn’t upset with Otis for rejecting her feelings at the party, it was the way that he did it that hurt her.

It’s never entirely about the end, the journey is every bit as important as well, and Isaac never saw it until now.

_“You telling me that you had feelings for me was.. was all I ever wanted to hear. And— I was so caught up in trying to do the right thing.. I lost track of what it is.”_

Isaac nodded in realisation, swallowing thickly. “You’re awfully kind for someone who communicates mostly in middle fingers.”

Maeve flipped him off, rubbing at the corner of her eye. “Had to adapt to your language.. dickstain.”

_“It’s you— it’s always been you. I love you, Maeve. Call me back? I hope it’s not too late—”_

“Aww,” Isaac said, holding his hand to his chest as he smiled back at her, “I thought that I was being pretty sweet to you. I invited you in for some omelettes and a dance afterall, didn’t I?”

“Which I had to buy the milk for and cook myself.”

_Beep._

“But I still invited you in.”

Maeve rolled her eyes fondly, albeit exasperatedly, sighing to herself. “Yeah,” she said, “You did.”

“And you had fun.”

“That’s pushing it.”

“You smiled,” Isaac relented, “At least you smiled tonight.”

Maeve looked back at Isaac. There wasn’t a hint of a smile on her face, but her eyes were the most expressive that they had been all night, sparkling with gratitude and simple contentment that Isaac knew would decay the moment she found out about what he did.

I’m sorry, he thought. He tried to protect her, but he would inevitably hurt her in the future, when all of this comes to light.

_“Message deleted.”_

“Thank you.” Maeve said sincerely. Isaac hesitated, pushing down the guilt prickling in his chest.

“.. You’re welcome.”

But it was wrong. All of it.

He knew that Maeve would have forgiven her mother if her mother had come clean to her about it. If her mother had been honest with her mistake.

It was never entirely about the outcome.

And as he watched Maeve cross the small distance between their caravan, fishing around in the pockets of her jeans for her keys, he closed his eyes and clenched his fists. He felt something inflate inside of him, a deadly calm that overcame people in hopeless situations. Resignation, Isaac believed it was called. Not that he remembered this feeling clearly, but it wasn’t entirely foreign to him either.

What would she think of him now, if she found out what he did?

“Maeve,” Isaac called out. Maeve froze, spinning half-around with a quizzical frown perched on her lips. Isaac inhaled slowly, deeply.

He opened his eyes and met Maeve’s in an unwavering stare, hoping that if there was any time that she would understand him— his thoughts, his feelings, the reason why he did things the way he did— it was now.

He was about to find out the answer to his question, and he prayed to a god he no longer believed in that it would be an answer he could live with.

“I have something to tell you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Finally had the time/mood/feels/whatever to write this little idea I’ve been dreaming of writing for a while! Aah, I really liked the new characters in season 2 and found them really interesting, but I have a really soft spot for Isaac and Maeve’s friendship (and especially after their really soft moment in episode 6, so much love for them both ♥️) :^)


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